


Feeling Toasty

by DickBaggins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: D/s, Other, POV Inanimate Object, Reader Insert, Second Person, dubcon, i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 03:03:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DickBaggins/pseuds/DickBaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The good news is you're a toaster; the bad news is Sam Winchester is hungry. (No, Sam is not putting his dick in the toaster.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Feeling Toasty

**Author's Note:**

> Zero excuses: this is just Sam topping a toaster because Sam topping anything is really fucking hot, predictably written for Wren.

You're cold, but then you always are at first, cold and unfeeling, neglected on the counter until big hands grab at your cord and jam it into the wall with absolutely no finesse. It's _him_ again, you can tell from the hum searing through you, low and resonant and nothing to do with the electricity flowing out from the wall. It's time already, time for him to put you to use again like he does every morning at same time and maybe you'd expect it, if you had a concept of things like that. Instead, it's the same little shock every time the current starts, because you know what happens next.

He's gentle enough, at first, brushing his warm fingertips over your cool chrome, whisking away any mess from the last time, but it's a dangerous slope with him. His fingers grasp at the stiff ridge of your temperature dial, just a thumb and index finger but they're always so big, too gentle for their size, for the strength you know is in there. He twists so slightly to the right, just a slow quarter turn and you'd whine, if you could, because he's turning you _down_ , and walking away.

There's rustling across from you, a paper bag being twisted open. An apprehensive spark prickles up your cord. It's bread, he always starts with bread and gives you long seconds to think about it before he's close again and you can imagine his smug look, imagine the thick doughy slices held between his pressing fingers. Sometimes the bread slides in indented from his grasping, belying his hunger. You don't even get a chance to adjust this time; he's jamming the slices into your slots – dark brown bread, full of bumpy seeds and softer than usual – and his fingers dance over the temperature knob once more but he doesn't turn a thing, just a stop on his way over to the lever. He presses _down_.

So many things happen at his touch, so many things you have no say in. All of your springs mash down at once and try so desperately to push back up, fighting against the rising heat. Your twin cages clench hard around the bread as it's shoved all the way in and jostled against the firm grate at your center. You can't control it, just like you can't control the coils heating up inside of you at his behest, starting to redden ever so slightly. You know they won't even get hot enough, not as hot as you like, know the first part is a fucking tease.

He's stuffed you full and he's walking away, letting the timer and the electromagnet determine your fate, but you know he isn't finished yet.

He's fishing something out of another bag, you can hear it over the clicking inside of you. Heat soars inside of you too, emanating from your coils, wrapping itself around all of your surfaces and cradling around the seedy bread held fast in your slots. You're distracted, so caught up in warmth and the alarmingly satisfying feeling of fullness that when it ends, when the magnet disconnects and your springs release, your cages nearly grip the hardened bread with desperation, flutter around noisily for a second but _no_. You can't move, can't even groan your need out for him. You can only wait, coils going cool again and electricity thrumming up your cord even though nothing's happening.

He yanks the bread out of you suddenly and grasps the temperature knob again. He's twisting it up and up, cranking it all the way to ten and your heating elements seem to shudder at the thought. All the way up is devastatingly hot but that's how he likes it at the end, and if that bread felt big, you know you're in trouble already. Beside you, a knife cuts in a jagged rhythm that makes you shiver. _So big_.

You're still clicking and cooling down, always are when he does this, when he forces the thick, irregular slabs of dense bread into your slots. They're round and so hard and even sprung free, you aren't sure they'll really fit. He twirls the one on the left around, rubs the bulbous edges all over your grate and wiggles it so hard metal clangs together, jostling you around helplessly. And then _the lever_.

Your metal cages creak around the heavy weight of the bagel, squish it hard and then fly against the sides of the slots, unwilling. It's too much this time, you can't hold it at all and you think maybe, maybe he'll relent and not make you do this but he presses down on the lever _again_ , presses and holds and everything catches so tight, springs coiled under pressure, traps clenched impossibly tight against the thick bagel, so tight the edges are biting in. Even your slots are filled to the brim, roundness spilling up over your openings. You weren't meant to take this much but he _makes you_ , every morning, pushes you to the limit over and over.

And the _heat_ is starting. There's still residual warmth from before but it's forgotten by the time your coils start their red glow, deep and dark at first and in a second, they're flaring orange and burning you up. You know he's looming, staring down and watching you like he always does, probably lording smug delight from above because he must love this, or else why would he try and break you, every morning? He watches this a lot, the bagel halved and stuffed in your slots, not even fitting, not really. He never pulls the lever up early, even when you heat up yellow and press as hot as you can against hard crust. Once you even set flame to a lumpy mound of bread, felt the heat lick across your chrome finish and he didn't even stop. You're sort of glad he didn't though, even more glad you don't have the capacity to tell him this out loud.

The heat is incredible, so quickly too much and you feel a surge through your cord, sizzling around the base where it slides into you. The bagel is radiating too, everything doubling back on you and licking you with wave after wave of heat. Your timer is clicking away madly but it feels like slow motion. He's still _looming_ , likely peering down even through the heat you're sending up at his face and just to tease you, his fingers clasp around the lever and jiggle it, a futile attempt at switching you off. He doesn't mean it though, just playing bored while you're baking and overfull and the timer _has_ to be getting close, doesn't it? You can't take much more, the bagel shoved down the center of you straining against its bindings in a constant battle against your tight clench.

He jiggles your lever again, pinches harder than before and then _leaves_ , leaves you all alone again.

You don't want to do it when he's not watching but it _happens_ , timer springing the magnet, everything within you unclenching in a great whoosh and you eject so hard, the bagel tumbles out all hot over the top of you, popping out of your slots and sliding over your chrome and you feel so _empty_ but the heat remains like a terrible, beautiful reminder.

You're still basking, clicking and cooling in your little heat bubble when his hands stroke against your cord again, and you shudder, surge out when he tugs your pronged plug out of the wall. The last spark of electricity registers his fingers, always those fingers sliding over your chrome even though it's burning. You hiss out a last gasp of heat, strain against the crumbs he's left behind, lodged deep inside of you, and wonder what he'll shove in tomorrow morning before it all goes away and you're lifeless again.


End file.
